


and then there were some

by seekingtomorrow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Development, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 08:57:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekingtomorrow/pseuds/seekingtomorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thrives on predictability; she prefers the spontaneous.  He lives in a run-down apartment; she resides in a spacious loft.  He’ll only drink three quarters of his coffee; she’ll gulp it down to the very bottom dregs.  By all means, they shouldn’t even get along, let alone be attracted to one another, but love has a very funny way of stringing along even the most schizophrenic of people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and then there were some

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy! This was supposed to be a cute little ficlet, but morphed into a gigantic oneshot. I really hope the development of Domeric's character from a shy, awkward introvert into a self-assured and confident person is visible.

"Is that an Agatha Christie novel?"

The girl looks up, surprise evident in her grey eyes. "Yes! Are you a fan?"

"No," says Domeric Bolton, deadpan. "I was just wondering."

"You don't like Agatha Christie?" The girl asks. She places the book in her lap with its spine facing upwards. Domeric winces slightly.

"No," he replies. "I don't like mystery novels."

The girl smiles, despite Domeric's flat tone and clear disapproval. "I think they're wonderful."

Domeric stuffs the empty candy wrapper in his coffee cup, the grainy puddle at the bottom overflowing onto the shiny foil. He gets up to leave, scanning the park bench for any pieces of garbage he may have missed. "I like to know what's going to happen before it happens."

The girl, interest clearly piqued, says, "You must not live a very exciting life."

"An exciting life doesn't pay the bills," he retorts. Without waiting for her response, which would have definitely been on the defensive, he leaves.

* * *

To say Domeric's apartment was "a bit run-down" would be an overstatement. The sheer, lacy curtains let out dust every time they moved, despite his best efforts to clean them. The once-floral wallpaper peels when you scratch it, revealing chipped green paint beneath. The hardwood floor—Domeric is eternally grateful that it isn't carpet—is marked with dents, odd imperfection in the honey stained wood.

Lying back on a pristine sofa that looked out of place amongst the shabby interior of the room, Domeric kicks off his shoes and relaxes. The remote, he notes, is on a stack of furniture magazines—he should have gotten rid of those after his ex-girlfriend dumped him—and he's too lazy to get up for it. Sighing, he turns on his side, facing the spotless window and ignoring the grimy dirt caked into the corners.

It's a nice day, he thinks to himself, and he's all cooped up in his dingy apartment. No girlfriend, a boring job, no friends; Domeric feels lonely. But he'll never tell anyone.

He thinks about the girl at the park, about her wide grey eyes and ratty book. _Murder on the Orient Express_ was its title, the faded letters of R and I blurring and fading together to look like an N. He hates books like that. Domeric works at a bookstore. The books there are all new and smell like printing presses and success and fresh ink dripped onto stiff parchment. Domeric likes that smell.

The smell of success, not the smell of fresh ink.

Domeric wishes he was more familiar with that smell.

Sometimes, Domeric wishes he was more familiar with his family, but mostly not.

Yeah, he thinks, mostly not.

* * *

Domeric doesn't always hate his job, but it is incredibly boring from time to time. Mr. Luwin—whose first name he's never bothered to learn—is a kind man, if a little complacent. The interior of the bookstore is less corporate looking and more cozy. The dark wood shelves are piled with books of all genres in some odd order that only Mr. Luwin knows. There are no chintz armchairs around, but the lighting makes up for the lack of comfortable seating.

"Excuse me?"

"Can I help you?" Domeric asks.

"You're the Agatha Christie hater!" The girl from the park says. Her voice is obnoxiously loud in the previously comfortable silence of the store.

"I am," Domeric replies.

"What's your name, hater?" The girl teases, the ghost of an ever-present smile gracing her face.

"I'm supposed to be working."

"That's a very long name," she muses.

"And you're taking a very long time to find a book."

She laughs for real this time, head thrown back. Domeric can see the dark smudges left behind by makeup on her eyelids. Black is a harsh colour on her.

"I'm here to buy a gift," she explains, "for my brother. He just got engaged."

"That's nice," says Domeric, blandly. Mr. Luwin, attracted by the sound of his employee discussing non-work related topics, has moved himself to the front of the store. He's inconspicuously rearranging a window display that looks like it hasn't been moved for at least twenty years.

"I know!" She agrees. "We've been waiting for forever for him to pop the question!"

Domeric says, "It's nice that you're buying a gift for your brother."

The girl narrows her eyes. "Don't tell me," she says mockingly, but not maliciously. "You're one of those people who doesn't believe in love either."

"I believe in love," says Domeric. "Love is nice, comfortable even."

The girl throws her hands up in the air, sighing exasperatedly. "Love isn't supposed to be comfortable or nice! It's supposed to be like fireworks and vinegar with baking soda in those stupid volcanoes you make in the second grade that never work until the ratio of vinegar to baking soda is 3:1 and the whole thing explodes and you know you've failed your science project, but you don't care because it was awesome and you want to do it again!"

"Love sounds messy," says Domeric. "I've never made a baking soda and vinegar volcano before."

"You've never made a baking soda and vinegar volcano before?" The girl shrieks. A frustrated Mr. Luwin shushes them from his precariously tall ladder. "You've never made a volcano like that before?" She repeats in a whisper.

"I was homeschooled."

"No wonder you don't like Agatha Christie! You've probably never even read her novels!"

"She writes mystery, doesn't she? By definition, I don't like mystery novels."

"One day, you will have to make a baking soda and vinegar volcano," the girl says resolutely.

"Can I make it out of Agatha Christie novels?"

The girl laughs again. She seems to like laughing. "I'm Lyanna, by the way."

"Domeric."

"It's nice to meet you, Domeric."

"Likewise."

For the next half hour, the two of them stay there, him standing at the desk, her slightly slouched over the wood countertop, just talking. Domeric learns that Lyanna has two brothers, Ned being the elder and Benjen being the younger. She went to a private, all-girls school. She played soccer and used to go horseback riding until she nearly broke her ankle and her father forbade it. She's once had a crush on a boy who ended up dating her best friend. Her enemy from high school, whose golden-blonde hair she tried to pull out in a fight, is now one of her closest friends, and isn't it funny how life works out that way?

Domeric doesn't tell Lyanna much. There isn't much to tell about him.

Eventually, she checks her watch, a gold and leather device, sighing. "I've got to meet my Benjen for lunch now. He's probably blowing up my phone as we speak. It was nice meeting you, Domeric!"

Domeric doesn't say anything, nodding his affirmation.

"I'll see you around," Lyanna trills. She nearly knocks over Mr. Luwin on her way out of the door, apologizing profusely. The door clicks shut, the bell overtop ringing with a rusty sort of noise.

The shop is quiet.

Avoiding Mr. Luwin's look of curiosity (and slight disapproval), Domeric returns to his alphabetization of the non-fiction section. It only occurs to him halfway through that he's smiling like an idiot and Lyanna never ended up buying her book.

* * *

"Domeric!"

Domeric looks up from the comics section of the Saturday paper, hastily covering it with the classifieds.

"Domeric!" Lyanna says cheerily, sliding into the seat next to him. "It seems like you're here all the time."

"I come here every Saturday," says Domeric.

"Part of your routine?" She teases.

"I like the bagels."

"The bagels?"

"From the bakery across the street. They have good bagels."

Lyanna squints, shading her eyes with her right hand. Her hands are slender, fingernails swathed in sparkly blue paint, a coarsely made ring on her middle finger. "I don't think I've ever been there before."

"They've good bagels."

"Shall we go?" Lyanna asks, standing up. She offers a hand to Domeric.

"Go where?"

"To the bakery! Come with me. I won't know what to order otherwise."

You could order a bagel, Domeric starts to say, but is cut off when Lyanna grabs him by the hand and pulls him along with her. The pads of her fingers are calloused, he notices. It's an odd sensation against his hands, which has never handled anything more extreme than encyclopaedias written by men who think they know everything about the world. (Sometimes, Domeric wonders what life would be like if he was one of those men.)

"Come on," she says. "We can get breakfast together."

Well, Domeric isn't exactly going to say no to that.

Later, they seat themselves at one of the tables inside the little bakery. Domeric would have chosen any table, but Lyanna likes the one with the brown marble-like top and deep fissure running from one end to another. Domeric thinks it looks broken, but Lyanna says it gives it _character_.

"I don't think I've ever been here before!"

The chairs are made of straw and they're rickety. "They have good bagels."

"They do," Lyanna agrees, smiling. The corners of her eyes are smudged with dark eyeliner. It's slightly distracting. "I really like the décor in here."

"There's a lot of French stuff." There is. Domeric counts three posters depicting the Eiffel tower, one with the Louvre, a calendar from three years ago that's Paris themed, and a clock with a fleur-de-lis.

"I would love to go to France," Lyanna breathes wistfully. "It looks so beautiful. What would you like to do, Domeric?"

Domeric stares into his cup of coffee. He's already drank half. "It'd be nice," he starts slowly, "if I could figure out what Mr. Luwin's first name is."

Lyanna laughs loudly. The people at the next table look over, their eyes slightly narrowed. Domeric hunches his shoulders. "I like you, Domeric. You're funny."

Domeric doesn't really know how to respond.

"But you're so boring," she continues, eyes wide. "You really need to experience something exciting in life!"

Domeric doesn't answer, so Lyanna presses on.

"Have you ever been to an art exhibition?"

Domeric shakes his head. His coffee is cold now, but his bagel is still crispy around the edges.

"Benjen, my younger brother, invited me to go this art exhibition. One of his pieces is going to be featured there. You should come."

"I've never gone to an art gallery before," Domeric admits. He takes a bite of the bagel and chews meticulously. He's put too much butter on and it slides down his throat greasily.

"I'll be going," Lyanna says. "We can go together. Please? I hate going to these events by myself. They're so boring."

"Okay," says Domeric. "I'll go."

"Really?" Every bit of Lyanna seems to sparkle brightly, from her grey eyes, to her blue painted nails, which Domeric realizes have been chewed down to the quick.

"Really," he affirms.

Lyanna reaches over and gives his arm a squeeze. "I'm so glad you said yes. This is going to be so exciting and cultural. Maybe you can buy some art books after!"

"I think Mr. Luwin has some," Domeric says offhandedly.

"Well, you can buy more!" Lyanna exclaims. "Here!" She holds out her hand. "Give me your phone and we'll exchange numbers."

Domeric hands his phone over and in turn, receives Lyanna's. The sleek metal is comforting in his bagel-warmed hand.

"I'll call you, okay?"

"Okay."

* * *

The doorbell to Domeric's apartment rings, an annoying buzzing noise that he'd meant to replace with a nice jingle, but never got around to doing.

"Domeric?" The person standing outside starts knocking when Domeric doesn't immediately answer.

Domeric sighs, placing his hands on his pant-covered legs, and stands up. He strides over to the door and pulls it open.

"You're early," he says.

Lyanna stands there, tapping one heeled foot against the impersonal concrete floor. "I thought I should come by early in case you needed help. I've never been to your place before."

I've never invited you, Domeric means to say, but is cut off.

"How do I look?" She says, giving an experimental twirl. Halfway through her third, she loses her balance and grabs onto Domeric's arm for support. She nearly pulls him down with her.

Domeric pulls her up. "You look nice." She does. She's wearing a nice blue dress with a blazer on top. She looks crisp and polished. Domeric looks at his own scruffy, mustard-coloured jacket and absentmindedly wonders if he should have bought some new clothing for the occasion.

"Thanks!" She says brightly. "You look good, too!"

"I don't think so," he disagrees. "I'm wearing a yellow jacket that's probably older than I am."

Lyanna rolls her eyes playfully. "Then you'll fit in perfectly."

"You look really nice," Domeric repeats, not knowing what else to say.

"I know," she says, eyes soft. "You said that already."

Feeling a burst of confidence, he adds, "You look so nice, I had to repeat myself."

Lyanna bursts out laughing. She had a habit of doing that. "Where the heck did this come from? If I'd known you were this smooth, I wouldn't have made all this effort!"

"What effort?" Domeric asks, curious.

Lyanna stops laughing, eyes wide with shock. "I didn't mean to say that!" She says bashfully, covering her eyes with her hands.

"Don't cover your eyes," Domeric says. "I like seeing your eyes."

She groans with embarrassment. "What's with you today?"

"What do you mean?"

"The compliments!" Lyanna says, exasperated.

"What's wrong with compliments?" Domeric asks.

Lyanna huffs, her dark bangs moving with her breath. She crosses her arms over her chest, a braided leather bracelet sliding down her slim wrist. "Nevermind," she says. "Let's just go. Are you ready?"

"I think so," says Domeric, casting one more look around his shabby apartment. He hasn't put his laundry away, and his folded pants are lying in full view on the couch.

"Let's go, then!"

"How are we getting there?" Domeric asks. "I've never been to the art gallery before."

"We're going to drive," she responds.

"I don't have a car."

At this, Lyanna stops and rummages in her stiff leather shoulder bag. She pulls out a ring of shiny keys, marked with different coloured, cartoonish dog heads. "I'm driving." She smirks.

Domeric idly wonders if Lyanna drives the way she talks, and if she does, if there's any god who exists that responds to prayers involving potential car accidents.

* * *

The art gallery is a gargantuan monument, all smooth, rounded corners and white stone. The walls are spotless; the only colour coming from the hanging paintings and odd, twisting sculptures. The light wooden floor is smooth, so different than Domeric's apartment.

"You have to meet my brother," Lyanna says, tugging at his arm. Domeric still feels slightly shaken by Lyanna's driving. She has a habit of running yellow lights and making turns at the last possible moment. "Oh and you need to silence your phone. We're at an art gallery."

"Benjen?" Domeric asks.

"Benjen," Lyanna confirms. "There he is. Benjen!"

A lanky man in a _mustard yellow_ jacket and skinny pants perks up at the mention of the name. He starts walking toward them. "Lyanna! You decided to come."

"Of course," she croons. "I wouldn't miss my little brother's exhibition for anything in the world."

"You're such a charmer," he says, smiling. "Who's your friend?" He presses a finger to the bridge of his black, thick-framed glasses and pushes them up.

Lyanna gives Domeric a shove. "This," she huffs, "is Domeric. Domeric, this is Benjen."

Benjen smiles and puts out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Domeric." He shakes Domeric's hand. "I like your jacket." He smirks and it looks shockingly like Lyanna's.

"Thanks," says Domeric, nodding. "I like yours too."

Benjen laughs. "I like this guy. What a charmer!"

"I like him too," Lyanna agrees, looking up at Domeric. There's a sort of softness in her eyes and Domeric shuffles uncomfortably.

"Well," Benjen says, rubbing his hands together. They're splattered with flecks of black ink. "I'll leave you lovebirds alone now. I've got some guests to greet. Hopefully I'll see you two later?"

"Later," Lyanna says as Benjen walks away. "What do you think?"

"I don't think I understand the art here."

"Of my brother!"

"Oh," says Domeric. "He's nice."

"I'm glad you think so," says Lyanna. "We were really close when we were young and he's always been my favourite brother."

"I have a brother," Domeric says before he can stop himself.

"You do? You never told me!"

He's in prison, Domeric wants to say, but doesn't. "You never asked," he says, reverting to a much safer answer.

"What's his name?" Lyanna asks.

"Ramsay," says Domeric. "We don't talk much. We're not very close anymore."

"Anymore?"

"Not anymore."

Lyanna sulks slightly. Domeric wants to smile at her furrowed eyebrows and pouting mouth. "I'm going to the washroom," she says.

"Okay." Domeric watches as she walks out of view, crossing behind a huge sculpture of what looks like a certain part of the male anatomy that Domeric isn't very comfortable discussing in public company.

"Was that Lyanna Stark?" A man asks hesitantly, about five minutes later. He's dressed nearly all in green and there's something distinctively boyish about him, despite the fact that he's probably about the same age as Domeric, if not older.

"Pardon?"

"Was that Lyanna Stark?" The man asks, still looking absolutely terrified of Domeric.

"Yes," Domeric affirms.

"Oh," the man slaps himself in the forehead. "I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Howland, Howland Reed."

"Domeric," says Domeric.

"I didn't know Lyanna had a boyfriend," says Howland.

"Does she?" Domeric asks.

"Aren't you—" Domeric shakes his head. "Oh," says Howland disappointedly. "Are you a friend of Lyanna's?"

"I think so," Domeric says unsurely.

"Well I don't think she would have invited you to come with her if you weren't. And I definitely don't think she would have introduced you to Benjen if you weren't friends."

"You know Benjen?" Domeric asks, more for the sake of conversation than anything else.

Howland's eyes widen. "I suppose Benjen hasn't mentioned me yet."

"No," Domeric says.

"Well, I'm his boyfriend."

"Oh. That's nice," says Domeric. He isn't very good at socializing with anyone who isn't as outgoing as Lyanna.

"I suppose it is," agrees Howland. "Benjen's a very nice person."

"He is," echoes Domeric. "I was just—"

"How did you meet—?" Howland starts to ask at the exact same time. "Oh!" He exclaims, as he realizes he cut Domeric off. "You go first."

"Oh, okay," says Domeric. "I was just saying to Lyanna that I thought Benjen was nice."

"Hm." Howland agrees. "How did you and Lyanna meet?"

"I don't like Agatha Christie novels," explains Domeric.

"You don't?" Howland gasps. "Me neither," he reveals secretly.

"That's how we met," Domeric continues. "And she bothered me at work and forced me to buy her breakfast." It's possibly the longest sentence he's ever spoken to a stranger.

Howland nods. "That sounds exactly like Lyanna." He looks around the gallery and its odd mishmash of black-and-white and colour-saturated displays. "Do you know where I can find Lyanna?"

Domeric blinks. "She went to the washroom a while ago."

"Maybe Benjen knows." Howland grabs the sleeve of Benjen who just happens to be passing by. "Ben, where's Lyanna?"

"Lyanna?" Benjen asks. "She's left already."

"She left?" Howland asks. "I didn't even get a chance to say hello."

Benjen waves a hand dismissively. "She never likes to stay at these things. She just said goodbye to me a little while ago." He looks at Domeric and gives a start. "I thought you were with her!"

"She told me she went to the washroom," says Domeric by way of explanation.

"Oh, I see." Benjen says, stroking his beardless chin. "So you two are at that stage. That didn't take long."

"Stage?"

"She doesn't like me?" Domeric asks. He feels a little disappointed, but isn't quite willing to figure out why just yet.

"Quite the opposite," says Benjen. "She probably knows you like going to art exhibitions, but she hates it and doesn't want to make your night awful, so she left. She has a habit of doing stuff like that."

"That's terrible logic," says Domeric.

"It is." Benjen nods. "I'll be the first to admit that Lyanna is extremely selfish and doesn't think things through, but she does have good intentions most of the time."

"I guess," Domeric says.

"Don't be mad at her," pleads Benjen. "She tends to think she's good at reading people and like I said, she probably honestly thought you'd have a better time without her."

"I'm not mad," says Domeric. It's not like this is the first time anyone's left him.

"I'm glad," Benjen says. "I'm really glad. You seem like a good guy and I think you'll make Lyanna happy."

"I don't think she needs anyone to be happy." Domeric contradicts lightly.

"She does," chimes in Howland. "Everybody does."

I don't, Domeric wants to say, but doesn't. "I suppose so."

Later, when Domeric is busing back to his tiny apartment, he'll check his phone and see that he's gotten exactly one text from a 'Lyanna Stark.'

All it'll say is a "Sorry!" with a sad emoticon.

Domeric thinks he should probably be angry.

* * *

The very next weekend, Domeric finds himself standing at Lyanna's doorstep, a smock in his hands. Raising a hand rather hesitantly, he knocks on her red painted door.

She answers almost instantaneously, almost as if she were standing right behind, waiting for him to arrive. "You're here!"

"I am," says Domeric, as she ushers him into her spacious loft. The ceilings are high and it looks impeccably new.

"I didn't think you'd come," she admits, not quite meeting his eyes. She closes the door with a quiet, but audible click. "I thought you'd be mad at me because of last week."

"I didn't say I was."

"Mad?"

"Not mad."

"I'm afraid I don't quite follow you," Lyanna says.

"It's okay," Domeric consoles. "Neither do I."

There's a moment of silence between them, but it's not of the uncomfortable sort.

"I'm glad you came," Lyanna reiterates.

"Me too," Domeric agrees. "Why'd you invite me over, anyways?"

At this point, Lyanna perks up and drags Domeric to her airy kitchen. Lying on the marble-topped counter are several plastic bags. Domeric can see boxes of what looks to be baking soda, lined neatly next to bottles of vinegar.

"We're going to make volcanoes," Lyanna says happily. She looks up at Domeric with shining eyes.

For the first time in a long time, Domeric laughs. He didn't think she'd actually remember him telling her about his homeschooling and lack of cool science experiments. "Where do we begin?"

Making the volcanoes sounds easy in theory, but to be truthful, it's an utter mess. Lyanna revels in it, tossing baking soda everywhere and covering Domeric in a thick layer of it. It settles into his hair, aging him by at least ten years. Patches of it settle on every surface, from the beautiful table to the hardwood floors and in every nook and cranny of their clothes and hair. It's just an utter mess.

Later, after they make several volcanoes—through an arduous process of trial and error—they settle down on the couch, almost too tired to talk. Lyanna suggests watching a movie. Domeric agrees noncommittally. Lyanna insists on watching _And Then There Were None._ Inwardly, Domeric groans, but he's too tired to voice his complaint.

"Domeric?" Lyanna asks as the credits roll.

"Hm?"

"What're we doing?"

"Watching a movie," Domeric says, motioning to the television.

"I know that." Lyanna bites down on her lip. She shuffles closer to Domeric. "I mean us. Do you even like me?"

"I guess," says Domeric. "If I didn't, I don't think I'd ever want to see you again."

Lyanna pouts. "I suppose I should appreciate your honesty."

"You'd be the first."

Lyanna shuffles closer. Domeric hesitantly slings his arm around her, letting his hand dangle.

"Are we dating?" Lyanna asks.

"I'm not sure," says Domeric. "Do you like me?"

"Yeah," affirms Lyanna, not taking her eyes off the screen. "Should we date?"

"Sounds good to me," Domeric voices his approval. "I like you a lot," he says after a minute of contemplation.

"Alright." Even though he's not directly looking at her, Domeric can tell Lyanna's smiling. "Sounds good to me, too."

* * *

"Mr. Luwin?"

Mr. Luwin pauses from his book-keeping. Despite the brightness of the day, the greyish morning sunlight creeping in and diffusing upon the surface of dusty magazines and smelly tomes, he squints. "Yes?"

Domeric absentmindedly wipes one of the lower shelves using a cloth. Its faded pattern depicts rabbits in human clothing. "What happened to Mrs. Luwin?"

Mr. Luwin freezes, the page he was in the midst of turning falls and balloons up; the ink on the other side of the page is clearly visible. He clears his throat. "There was never a Mrs. Luwin."

"Oh," says Domeric. "I'm sorry I asked."

Mr. Luwin sighs. He flattens out the page and continues pouring over it. "There is no sin in curiosity."

Domeric doesn't respond, but he takes the words to heart.

* * *

Domeric never really forgets those words that Mr. Luwin told him. They are the echoing mantra in his head as he visits his brother, Ramsay, in prison. This will be the first time he's seen him in at least seven years.

"I thought you were dead." Those are Ramsay's first words to him.

"I'm not," Domeric says.

"I can see that, shithead."

The two brothers—half brothers, Ramsay will insist and Domeric will silently agree with—sit in the main visiting area. It's a depressing sort of room, all concrete and linoleum with a lonesome vending machine in the corner. The tables are Formica, its sticky surface making it uncomfortable for Domeric to rest his arms. The chairs aren't much better.

"Does Roose come often?" For as long as he can remember, Domeric has always referred to his father by his first name.

"Not since Christmas," says Ramsay. "What the hell are you doing here anyways?"

"Thought I'd visit."

"Did it not occur to you that I've been locked up since two years ago?"

"It did."

Ramsay puts his head into his hands, groaning. "You're so frustrating and I fucking hate you."

"I can go if you want," says Domeric.

Ramsay sits up. "No," he says. "Since you came out all the way here, you should stay. Tell me what you're up to. I want to know what sort of life my dickless wonder of a big brother's been leading."

"You'll be pleased to know that I've moved out."

"Good," scoffs Ramsay. "I hated that fucking place."

"You were only there for a few years."

"A few years is enough time to grow to hate anything."

Ramsay looks at him dismissively. "Are we still talking about that dump you called home? Or is this about something else?"

"I'm just agreeing with you," Domeric claims innocently.

"Whatever," says Ramsay. "You're one hell of a confusing bastard. No wonder you can't get a girl."

Domeric looks down at the table, covered in a film of what he hopes is the leftovers of cleaning solvents.

"Holy shit," Ramsay chortles. "Holy shit. You little bastard."

Domeric makes no attempt to respond.

"You got yourself a girlfriend, didn't you?"

Domeric can feel Ramsay's eyes on him.

"You did," Ramsay says, sounding a little in awe. "You little prick. Oi Seaworth!"

A grizzled looking man with grey-streaked hair from the table to their left gives a start. He seems to be in the middle of a very intense game of chess. "Yes, Ramsay?" He asks wearily.

"My brother," Ramsay points at Domeric excitedly, "has a girlfriend! And he's such a loser! Can you believe it?"

The man looks at Domeric with tired eyes. Your brother? He seems to motion to Ramsay with his eyes. Domeric nods in response. The man shakes his head a little says, as if to say he feels bad for him.

"Dad," the young man sitting across from Seaworth says. "Dad, come on. Your move."

"Yes, Matthos." Seaworth says, "I know."

Domeric looks at Ramsay, whose grin is starting to tick him off. "Is that man a friend of yours?"

"Seaworth?" Ramsay scoffs. "He's the biggest badass around these parts."

"Really?" Domeric wonders if he and Ramsay were looking at the same person. "Why is he even in prison?"

"Davos Seaworth," says Ramsay with relish, "was involved in the drug trade because he needed the money to put his sons through school—he has like, five kids or something—and one day, got into some huge fight. Some prick cut his fingers off and you know what Seaworth does?"

Domeric shakes his head.

"It was a rhetorical question, you retard." Ramsay says. "Anyways, Seaworth takes one look at his hand—just like this," Ramsay demonstrates with a rather stoic expression, "and then he puts his fingers back into his fucking pocket and _punches the dude in the fucking face with that hand._ "

"Wow." Domeric looks down at his own hand. He can't imagine how that must have felt. "Sounds painful."

"Doesn't it?" Ramsay says excitedly. "Man, I wonder what it's like to punch someone in the face with a stump of a hand! I wonder what hurts more: punching or getting punched."

"Ramsay." Domeric tries to calm his brother. "That's disgusting."

"Fuck you," Ramsay says good-naturedly. "It's interesting."

"Don't let anyone else hear that," warns Domeric. "They'll think you're into that sort of stuff."

"Who says I'm not?" Ramsay stares at Domeric with fanatical eyes. At Domeric's expression of disgust, he bursts in disturbing giggles. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding." He wipes tears of mirth from his bloodshot eyes. "Frick, you're so fun to tease."

Domeric sighs. They spend the rest of the visiting hours catching up—or in Ramsay's case, mocking Domeric for all of his shortcomings and discussing which prisoner they'd rather take on in a fight. Ramsay refuses to fight Seaworth, saying he'd rather take on both Clegane brothers at once.

Later, just as Ramsay leaves and Domeric is readying himself to go, he hears his name.

"Mr. Bolton?" It's Davos Seaworth. He's still sitting at the same table, a chess board in front of him. "May I have a word?"

"Of course," says Domeric. He moves to sit down across from Davos.

"You're Ramsay's brother, are you not?"

"Yes," says Domeric, furrowing his brow, "and no. We're half-brothers."

"But you are still family." It's not a question.

Domeric shrugs. "I suppose."

Davos doesn't look at him, choosing to fiddle with the bishop. "Why haven't I seen you here visiting?"

"Ramsay and I don't usually get along very well."

Davos regards Domeric skeptically. Domeric notices that despite his gentle countenance, there's a glint of determination in his eyes that would make him a fearsome man to cross. Domeric idly speculates how the thug who got punched by this man felt. "You two seemed to be getting along fine today."

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder."

"If you say so." Davos turns his attention back to the bishop. "But you should come by more often. Ramsay hardly gets any visitors and I'm sure he feels lonely at times."

"I'll try," promises Domeric.

"You should," enforces Davos. "Family is always important."

"Thank you, Mr. Seaworth." Domeric gets up to leave. "But I'll be going now."

"I hope to see you sometime soon, Mr. Bolton. Perhaps you can join me for a game of chess next time?"

"Perhaps," says Domeric. It isn't quite the answer Domeric knows Davos hopes for, but it's a good start.

* * *

It's a rainy day. Domeric wonders if he should walk Lyanna home. It's one of those rare times in which Lyanna has spent the night over at his place, rather than them both crashing at hers.

"Domeric? Do you want pancakes or scrambled eggs?" Lyanna was insistent on making breakfast for him today. She had claimed that she was an excellent cook and wanted to prove it.

"Either one," says Domeric. "It's raining today."

"It is," agrees Lyanna.

The two of them spend the next little while in a companionable silence. Domeric likes his relationship with Lyanna. It's comfortable. There's no drama or fearsome exes or anything that would cause him undue stress.

"Lyanna?"

Lyanna looks up from the frying pan, her face contorted into an expression of determination and a smudge of flour on her nose. "What is it?" She asks, her expression softening into a smile.

"I think I love you," Domeric says. The words feel heavy on his tongue. He almost didn't want to say them.

Lyanna's face freezes slightly. "M-me too," she stammers. She turns back to the stove rigidly.

Domeric lies back on the couch with his crossword, feeling an odd mixture of satisfaction and like he's done something he can't take back. He doesn't think he'll regret this decision. Leafing through the copy of _Murder on the Orient Express_ that Lyanna seems to enjoy toting everywhere, he notices something.

"Why do you crease the corners of the pages?"

Lyanna shoves her spatula in the pocket of her apron, an action that has Domeric frowning. "Those are my favourite parts."

"I hope you don't write in the book."

"I do," says Lyanna. "But I use an invisible pen."

"Invisible pen?" Asks Domeric. True to her word, there are no marking in the book.

"It's in my purse if you want to see it."

Domeric reaches over to grab her bag. Shuffling through, he notices a purple marker with a light on one end. "This is it?"

"Yup. Go to one of the creased pages and turn the light on."

Domeric flips to one page and clicks a tiny button on the side of the marker. The light illuminates the yellowed page and an underlined phrase immediately stands out to him. _"I believe, Messieurs, in loyalty—to one's friends and one's family and one's caste."_

Suddenly, the doorbell buzzes.

"I'll get it," says Domeric. Picking himself off the couch, he shuffles over to the door and tries to yank it open, only to have the chain get caught. "Hang on," he mutters to the startled man outside. Slamming the door shut, he unlatches the little mechanism and finally gets the door open. "Yes?"

The man outside is old, but dignified. His suit is impeccable, as is the knot of his tie. He carries himself with the air of someone who has travelled extensively and learned all that there is to know. "You are Domeric Bolton?"

"Yes," says Domeric slowly. "Can I help you?"

"I apologize for the disturbance." The man pulls a silken handkerchief from his breast pocket and mops his forehead with it. "My name is Mr. Pycelle. I was well acquainted with a friend of yours. Bertram Luwin?"

"Bertram?" Domeric murmurs, shocked. "No wonder I couldn't guess his first name."

"Sorry?"

"Nothing. What can I do for you?"

"I don't know if you've heard, but dear Bertram passed away a few days ago."

Domeric can hear the words the man is saying, but they don't quite compute in his head. "Excuse me?"

"He was quite ill," Mr. Pycelle goes on, "Cancer is quite a deadly disease you know, and he wasn't keen on receiving chemotherapy. He just wanted to be with his books. Anyhow, he was steadily growing weaker and a while ago, his heart just gave out."

"I'm sorry," says Domeric. He never knew Mr. Luwin that well, but he seemed to be a good man. "Though I'm not quite sure why you're coming all the way here to tell me this."

Mr. Pycelle regards Domeric thoughtfully. "Bertram probably never told you, but he was never married, nor did he have any children. I was speaking with him the day before he died and he mentioned you quite often. He was quite fond of you, you know. I'm sure he wanted you to be happy."

"Why?"

"Why?" Mr. Pycelle laughs mirthlessly. "Bertram was a strange man. He hated everyone you thought he would like, and took the people you think he would hate under his wing. He's left you the store, if you'd take it."

"The store? Does he really not know anyone else to give it to?"

Mr. Pycelle shrugs. "I doubt it. You should take it."

"I don't really know what to say."

Mr. Pycelle checks his gold watch. "You should say yes. Anyways, I should be taking my leave. I have a brunch in half an hour and I simply cannot be late. Good day to you, Mr. Bolton. I do hope you'll choose to keep the store." With a jaunty step uncharacteristic of his age, Mr. Pycelle departs Domeric's landing, leaving him standing in a state of shock.

Domeric closes the door and heads back to his tiny kitchen. Lyanna is sitting there. "Oh Domeric," she says sadly. "I'm so sorry." Of course she's heard the entire conversation. The apartment complex is too small not to.

"He's left me the store," says Domeric. To his surprise, he can feel his eyes stinging. "He's left me the store."

"Domeric." Lyanna breathes. She wraps her arms around his torso. "Don't cry."

"Why would he leave me his store?" Domeric's voice grows quieter and quieter and he's pretty sure Lyanna can't even hear him. "I'm not even family," he says in a whisper. What he wants to say is, why am I crying for this man when I couldn't even cry for my mother, but he can't.

"I'm so sorry," Lyanna whispers into his chest. "Please don't cry."

"I'm not even family," Domeric repeats.

They stay like that for the rest of the morning, breakfast forgotten.

* * *

Domeric wipes a thin layer of dust off one of the bookshelves in the back. For the first time a long time, he's the only one in the tiny shop and he swears the loneliness is almost tangible. He's contemplated hiring a part-timer to help him with the store (and his loneliness, but he doesn't want to admit that).

The tinkle of a rusty bell announces a customer arriving.

"Just a moment!" Domeric calls from the back. Giving the shelf an unsatisfied once-over, he heads to the front of the store, where he's greeted by the sight of a beautiful woman. She's exotic—but in a comfortable way—with long dark hair and skin the colour of coffee. Domeric instantly feels intimidated.

"Hi," the woman says, extending a hand. "We haven't met before, but Lyanna's told me all about you. My name's Elia Martell."

Domeric shakily takes the offered hand. "Domeric Bolton. Elia as in Lyanna's best friend Elia?" She's told me so much about you."

Elia laughs lightly. "I hope she's said good things about me." Her expression turns serious. "Lyanna told me you were thinking of hiring so I was wondering if I could apply for any potential positions," Elia says.

"Uhh, yeah." Domeric nods. "I'm hoping to hire."

"Could I give you my resume?" Elia asks. She reaches into her cavernous handbag.

"No need." Domeric waves a hand dismissively. "When are available to start working?"

Elia looks at him with a confused expression. "Wait," she says holding up a hand, "don't I need to go through an interview process or something?"

Domeric shrugs hopelessly. "I wouldn't know. I've never managed anything before. Besides, if Lyanna likes you, you can't be all that bad."

"Thanks!" Elia says happily, her face lighting up. She's the kind of beautiful that's almost nurturing and it makes Domeric want to smile too.

"No problem," he says. "If you do turn out to be a psycho though, I will be forced to fire you."

"I don't think we'll have to worry about that."

* * *

"I heard you hired Elia," says Lyanna over dinner. They're sitting in some Italian restaurant that's way too dark to be considered healthy.

"I did," confirms Domeric. "She seems nice."

Lyanna grins—or at least Domeric thinks it's a grin. He can't see too well in this lighting. "Oh you'll love her! She's just absolutely amazing and she's fantastic with people!"

"That's good."

Lyanna looks taken aback. "Oh, I didn't mean to say Mr. Luwin wasn't."

"I know," says Domeric. "It's okay."

Lyanna is silent. Ever since Mr. Pycelle stopped by, Lyanna's been out of sorts.

"Are you okay?" He asks.

Lyanna gives him a crooked smile; it's a fake smile. "I'm fine."

They eat their dinner in silence, only stopping to talk when the most mundane of conversation topics come up. How was work, are you enjoying the weather, have you seen the latest episode of your favourite tv show?

Later, Domeric escorts Lyanna home. As he stands in her doorstep, he leans down and whispers to her, "I love you."

He can feel her stiffen. "Me too," she says quickly.

She shuts the door without wishing him a goodnight.

* * *

A few days later, when Domeric notices that Lyanna isn't answering her phone, he decides to check her apartment. As he rings the doorbell, Domeric idly wonders if Lyanna is purposely ignoring him and if she is, for what possible reason. Domeric can't recall him doing anything wrong.

"Lyanna?" He knocks on the door. "Lyanna, are you there?"

There's no answer.

Domeric sighs to himself and pulls out his phone. He's about to scroll down to the S's for Lyanna Stark, but notices something in his list of contacts.

Benjen Stark.

Domeric calls.

"Hello?" A sleepy voice answers. In the background, Domeric can hear another male voice ask who it is.

"Benjen? Sorry to wake you. It's Domeric."

"Oh, hi Domeric!" Benjen's voice perks up. "How're you doing?"

"I'm alright. How're you?"

Benjen sighs dramatically. "I'm doing horribly. I have no inspiration for anything and I've been spending the last week buying copious amounts of cigarettes and not smoking any of them because I've quit."

"Oh," says Domeric sympathetically. "I'm sorry."

"Inspiration will strike one day!" Benjen declares. "Anyways, what can I do for you?"

"Is Lyanna with you? Or have you heard from her in the past five days?"

There's silence on the other end. "I haven't seen Lyanna for almost two weeks."

"Do you know where she is?" Domeric can feel himself getting slightly angry and a little fearful.

"She'll turn up," consoles Benjen. "Remember the time at the art gallery when we first met?"

"What about it?"

"I told you that Lyanna has a habit of running away."

"But why would she run?" Domeric is extremely confused. He sits himself down with his back to her door. "I haven't done anything wrong."

"You most likely haven't," agrees Benjen. "But Lyanna's like that."

"That's not an excuse," berates Domeric. "She shouldn't do stuff like that."

"You're right. She shouldn't. She's an adult, but she acts like a child most of the times." Benjen sighs slowly. "Ned and I have told her a million times not to do this, but she never listens."

"Do you know where she would have gone?"

"She never tells us," explains Benjen. "Just wait for her to come back. She always does. She loves the excitement of leaving, but can never handle the pressure."

"Well, thanks for your help Benjen." Domeric says.

"No problem. And if you do happen to find her, let me know."

Domeric hits the end button. He stares up at her doorknob, wondering where in the world she would have gone. Feeling dejected, he grabs onto the doorknob to hoist himself up. The door opens.

She didn't even lock her door, Domeric wants to yell. He's about to step in to see if he can find a key to lock it with, but notices something on the floor. He bends down to take a closer look at it.

It's a copy of _Murder on the Orient Express_ and next to it is a purple pen with a light on its cap.

Domeric wonders what the heck Lyanna was thinking when she left his behind. Picking it up, he thumbs through the pages. Only one page is marked with the creased corner. It's the first page, where only the title and author are printed. Curious, Domeric picks up the invisible pen and clicks on the light to see what Lyanna's written there.

She hasn't written anything. Instead, she's circled some letters and Domeric chuckles to himself. Despite her dislike of the predictable, she can be so easy to figure out.

On the page, only a few words are present: _Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie._ Lyanna's circled an N, an I, a C, and an E.

"That girl is going to be the death of me," Domeric says. He pockets both the book and the pen and closes her door behind him. "This is going to cost me quite a bit to find her."

Lyanna's gone to Nice.

* * *

Nice is a beautiful city, Domeric muses as he walks down the Promenade des Anglais. The water is as blue as the sky and everyone seems so happy here. Or maybe that's what Domeric is forcing himself to think so he feels more justified in spending the money on the ticket, as well as making poor Elia run the store by herself.

Domeric isn't sure where to look. Sure, buying the ticket sounded good in theory, but Nice isn't a tiny little neighbourhood. It's one of the bigger cities in France and there are a lot of people.

Heading into a coffee shop, Domeric struggles to order a coffee and bagel, hoping to stave off hunger as he paces this walkway one more time in the hopes of Lyanna miraculously appearing.

There's a bench a few paces away and Domeric moves toward it. Sitting next to a girl with short black hair, he sips his coffee and watches the people walk by.

The girl next to him suddenly stiffens and starts to stand. Domeric turns to look at her.

"Lyanna?"

The girl starts.

"What are the chances," Domeric mutters under his breath. "Lyanna, what're you doing here?"

Lyanna stares at Domeric with wide eyes. Her hair, normally a deep brown and long, has been cut down and dyed black. It looks harsh on her, especially against her fair complexion and grey eyes. "I'm watching the people."

"I figured out that much," he retorts. "Why are you in Nice?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"I came to find you."

"Well I came to get away from you!"

Domeric drops his coffee. The cup hits the ground and the liquid sloshes over his shoes, but he doesn't notice. "What did I do?" He says quietly.

Lyanna's glare softens. "I'm sorry," she says remorsefully. "It isn't your fault, not really."

"Then whose fault is it?" Domeric isn't angry anymore; he's just sad and so incredibly tired.

"It's mine," says Lyanna. "I got bored. I wanted to do something exciting, but you're not exciting at all. It was boring."

Domeric looks at Lyanna. There's been remarkable change in the time he's known her. She was so bright and sparkling at first, but now she's sort of muted. It's not a bad change, he thinks. It's just a change.

"You know," he says quietly, "if I was actually a boring person, I don't think I would have come here."

Lyanna looks over at him. Her eyes are bloodshot.

"If I was the person I was when I first met you, I would have stayed home and waited for you. I wouldn't have bothered with this chasing because I wouldn't know what to do if I found you."

"I don't understand," Lyanna says.

"I think that it was a good thing that I met you. I think you made me want to like mystery novels."

"Mystery novels?"

Domeric pulls the tattered copy of _Murder on the Orient Express_ out of his bag. "I've been reading this ever since the plane touched down."

"That's how you found me."

Domeric shakes his head. "I think you're the boring one, Lyanna."

Lyanna scowls. "I'm not boring."

"Yes you are," Domeric contradicts. "I think you knew how this would all end. You set up a little mystery of your own."

"Do you hate me?" Lyanna asks in a small voice.

"Right now?" Domeric cocks his head. "Probably. But I can't. I do love you, Lyanna. I love you because you're you and because you've helped me grow as a person. Do you love me too?"

Lyanna nods wordlessly.

"I think you're scared of love. I think you're scared that if you really love someone, you'll become boring."

Lyanna's face falls and she cradles her face in her hands. Domeric slides over and gently moves her hands away from her face.

"I don't care if you become boring," he whispers. "Because then I'll become spontaneous and we'll have enough unpredictability for the both of us."

Lyanna lets out a choked sob. "God," she says between tears, "you are such an idiot."

"Did I do a good job?" Domeric asks. "I was hoping to channel a sort of Hercule Poirot intelligence with a Casanova charm."

"You are such an idiot," Lyanna says again. "I'm sorry." She looks into his eyes unflinchingly. "I love you."

Domeric can feel a blush rising in his cheeks. He didn't really know what to expect when he prepared this speech and hopes Lyanna never finds out. "I love you, too."

"Do you want to go home, now?"

"No, not yet." Domeric lays his hand on her cheek. "Let's be spontaneous and stay a little longer."

"You realize an exciting life won't pay the bills, right?" Lyanna asks, referring to their first conversation,

"I don't care."

And then they kiss in the most clichéd of settings: the sun dipping below the horizon, the lazy lapping of cerulean water against crystal sand, the muted clicking of shoes on pavement as people from all walks of life stride by.

It's the most predictable movie ending anyone could ever think of, and neither of them could care less.


End file.
